"The same day she was murdered?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where?"
"In the basketball arena, after the game."
"In the arena? Where?"
"Girls' locker room. It was vacant."
"I thought you're engaged to another girl?"
"I am. Sarah Barnes. She's a sophomore, too."
"But you had sex with Rachel?"
"I try to resist, but they come on so strong. I'm only twenty, Mr. Tucker. I never had girls in high school. But in college, if you're a star athlete, it's like being a movie star."
"You didn't wear a condom?"
"No one does."
"You've never heard of AIDS? Sexually transmitted diseases?"
"We don't worry about that stuff."
"You could give something to your fiancée."
"I won't."
"When did you first meet her?"
"My fiancée?"
"Rachel."
"Ten minutes before we had sex. I didn't even know her name, till I read about her in the paper."
"So, what, she came up to you after the game, and ten minutes later you had sex with her in the girls' locker room?"
"Yes, sir. I noticed her during the game. She smiled at me then waited for me after the game."
"Is that a normal occurrence?"
"Oh, yes, sir. And not just for me."
"What time was that?"
"Maybe five."
"Her body was found that night at midnight. On Sixth Street. Where were you that night?"
"With my fiancée. At her apartment."
"And she will so testify?"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you take a polygraph?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Tucker. Absolutely."
"You took the case?"
District Attorney Dick Dorkin sat in the judge's chambers next to Frank. Judge Harold Rooney sat across his desk from them. It was that afternoon. Harold had come in on a Saturday because Frank had asked; the D.A. had come in because he had no family to spend his Saturdays with.
"He's guilty, Frank, and you don't represent guilty clients," the D.A. said. "Remember?"
"He's innocent."
"How do you know?"
"I looked him in the eye and asked him if he raped and killed Rachel Truitt. He said he did not."
"He's lying."
"No twenty-year-old boy can lie that well."
The D.A. turned to the judge. "Harold, you can't let Todd out of jail. He's guilty, and he's a danger to the community. This is a death penalty case, for God's sake."
"Frank," the judge said, "I could set his bail at five million, but his dad could pay that with a credit card."
"So what's the point? That's why I'm asking for his release on PR."
"Personal recognizance?" the D.A. said. "For an accused rapist and murderer? Harold, you can't."
The judge exhaled.
"Frank, we all know your reputation. Your rule. I'm relying on you. Don't make me look like a fool."
"You won't, Harold."
"PR," the judge said.
Chapter 8
It was a "he said, she said" case. She was dead. He was on the stand.
"Bradley, did you rape Rachel Truitt?" Frank asked his client.
"No, sir."
"Did you have sex with her?"
"Yes, sir."
Frank led his client through the details of the encounter with Rachel in the basketball arena locker room.
"After she left, did you ever see Rachel again?"
"No, sir."
"Did you strangle Rachel that night until she was dead?"
"No, sir."
The UT football team's winning the national championship at the Rose Bowl just two weeks before had faded from the front page of the Austin newspaper, replaced by The State of Texas v. Bradley Todd. Reporters and cameras camped out in the plaza fronting the Travis County Justice Center in downtown Austin. Spectators lined up early for available seats, as if the rape and murder trial were a reality show. Perhaps in America of 2006, it was. Frank had thought the Enron case had been a circus, and it had been; but the trial of a star athlete was a three-ring circus.
It was early January, and Frank again found himself trying a criminal case before Judge Harold Rooney and against Travis County District Attorney Dick Dorkin. The D.A. had not gotten over the senator's acquittal two years before. Pretrial hearings had been contentious. The D.A. was determined to convict Bradley Todd. To beat Frank Tucker. To win the Governor's Mansion.
Frank had requested the earliest possible trial setting in accordance with the speedy trial law and refused all continuances requested by the D.A. When the prosecutor has no evidence, you push him to trial. Force him to either dismiss the charges or prove them in court. Bradley Todd's life had been put on hold—he had been suspended from the basketball team and the school after feminists and faculty had staged campus protests; he was innocent until proven guilty everywhere except at a liberal arts university—and would remain on hold until the jury had rendered a verdict. Which would happen in a matter of days now.
"Mr. Dorkin," the judge said.
Travis County District Attorney Dick Dorkin stood and walked over to the witness.
"After you had sex with Rachel, where did you go?"
"To the men's locker room. I showered then went to Sarah's apartment."
"Sarah Barnes? Your fiancée?"
"Yes, sir."
"And where were you the rest of that night?"
"With Sarah, at her apartment."
"You didn't leave her apartment?"
"No, sir."
"Sarah is sitting outside this courtroom right now, waiting to testify after you, you know that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now, Mr. Todd, you know that if Sarah lies to protect you, she would be guilty of perjury?"
"Yes, sir. But she won't. Lie for me. She doesn't need to lie. We were together all night."
"But if she did lie, and that was subsequently discovered, she could be charged and convicted. You know that?"
"Yes, sir."
The police had Bradley's semen from the victim but no other physical evidence linking him to her death. They had found no evidence that put his alibi in doubt. And Bradley's fiancée would testify to his whereabouts at the time of the murder, that he was with her at her apartment. Frank had interviewed her as well. He had no doubt that she was telling the truth. But the D.A. remained convinced that Bradley Todd was guilty. That he had gone to Sixth Street that night. That he had met up with Rachel Truitt at a bar. That rough sex had turned into violent death. But he had no evidence. No witnesses. No surveillance camera images of Bradley. Nothing. The D.A. could have dismissed the charges and waited to find the evidence he was so sure existed and indict Bradley again in a year or five years or ten years; there was no statute of limitations on murder. But a dismissal would look bad in the press and would be brought up in the debates among the candidates for governor. So the D.A. pressed forward with the case. His only hope for conviction was to break Bradley's fiancée on the stand.
Sarah Barnes was cute and Christian. She wore a cross on a chain around her neck and swore to "tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God" and meant it. She sat in the witness chair. Frank asked a few preliminary questions regarding her relationship with the defendant, and then he asked the only question that mattered.
"Sarah, was Bradley Todd with you at your apartment from six P.M. on the night of Saturday, October the eighth of last year through the following Sunday morning?"
"Yes, sir."
"No further questions."
The D.A. attacked.
"Ms. Barnes, did Bradley tell you that he had had sex with Rachel that same afternoon?"
"No, sir."
"So he lied to you?"
"He didn't tell me. But, yes, that's the same as a lie."
"He betrayed you."
"Yes."
"But you still love him?"
&n
bsp; "Yes."
"Even though he lied to you and betrayed your love?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"He's a good man. Or he'll be a good man when he becomes a man."
"He's six feet eight inches tall. He's not a man?"
"No. He's just a big boy who happens to be able to play a silly game called basketball. Which, for some reason I don't get, makes him very attractive to college girls. Look at him—does he look like Brad Pitt? No, he does not. But girls, they'll drop their shorts for him—for any of the players—any time. I feel sorry for them."
"The players?"
"The girls."
"For girls who've had sex with Bradley?"
"Yes. I pray for them."
"Why?"
"Because they need something. Something he can't give them."
"What's that?"
"Love."
"And you think he loves you?"
"I know he does. But he's just a twenty-year-old boy. I'm going to stick with him because when he grows up, he'll be a fine forty-year-old man. He'll be a fine father. And a fine doctor."
She turned to the jurors; her eyes did not waver.
"Bradley was home with me that night. All night. I swear to God."
The all-white jury acquitted Bradley Todd.
Truth of the matter, Bradley Todd was a wholesome, clean-cut white boy who said "yes, ma'am" and "no, sir." His alibi witness was a pretty white Christian girl. If Bradley had been a tattooed black gangbanger with dreads who said "yo" and " 'ho" and whose body was covered with tattoos and whose pants sagged below his butt and whose alibi witness was a drug-addicted hooker, they'd have sent his ass to prison in a heartbeat. Frank knew that. But he also knew that Bradley Todd was innocent.
William sat in his room watching pro football on TV. The playoffs. Not the Dallas Cowboys. They had missed the playoffs again. He imagined himself wearing the silver-and-white uniforms with the number twelve on his back and a star on his helmet and leading the Cowboys to the Super Bowl. They had won two Super Bowls when Roger Staubach was their quarterback back in the seventies and three Super Bowls in the early nineties when Troy Aikman was their quarterback, but they had never won a Super Bowl since William had been alive.
That was still his dream, to be the Dallas Cowboys quarterback. To be rich and famous. But he first had to play college football at a Division I-A school. Which meant he had to get a football scholarship. You don't walk on and start at quarterback on a D-I football team. Would D-I coaches come to the Academy to recruit William Tucker? Even if he was good? Really good? When his team was really bad?
His middle school team had gone 0-10. He hadn't really cared about losing, not at first, but by the end of the season, he was really tired. Of losing. Of being the best player on the field, every game, but losing every game. He hated losing. He figured he'd love winning, but he didn't know because he had never won a game. And the varsity team had lost every game, too, so it wasn't as if things would change next year. Or the year after that. Or ever. At the Academy, the athletic teams lost. It was just … expected.
But losing sucks.
Would he get a college scholarship playing for a losing team? A lousy team? If his varsity record was 0-40? He had thought about that a lot lately because he would be in ninth grade next year. High school. When boys become men. When they prove themselves on a football field. That they're good enough to play college ball. That they're winners. College coaches aren't paid to lose, so they don't recruit losers.
"Your room is a mess."
William's mother walked into his room. The place was pretty messy, and at first he thought she was going to tell him to clean up his room. She walked around shaking her head as if disgusted; she stopped and picked up the framed photograph of William and Dad from two years ago, the one Jerry the photography club had taken after a game. After another loss. She replaced the photo and sat down on the bed next to him.
"You have a checkup tomorrow. Lupe will take you after school."
"Does it involve shots?"
"William, you're too big to be afraid of needles."
"If I wasn't afraid of needles, I'd have tattoos like the pros."
"Then I guess it's a good thing you're afraid. But no shots tomorrow."
"You're not lying again, are you?"
Last checkup, she had said no shots, but there were shots.
"Would your mother lie to you?"
"Yes."
"Oh, your dad called. He won."
"Really? Bradley Todd was innocent?"
"Apparently."
"Wow. Dad's a great lawyer, isn't he?"
"Yes, he is. So do you want to be a lawyer like your dad when you grow up?"
William pointed at the TV.
"No. I want to be a pro quarterback."
"Has anyone from the Academy ever made it to the NFL?"
He laughed. "Are you kidding?"
"Well, then it's probably just a dream."
"You don't think I'm good enough?"
"I think you could be. If you did what that scout said you should do."
"What scout?"
"A college scout came to see one of your games this year. He talked to your father, gave him some advice."
"Like what?"
"That we should get you a personal trainer and a nutritionist, send you to quarterback schools … and you should transfer to a big public school so you can play at a higher level. Develop your skills."
"Public school? You said trailer trash goes to public schools."
"If he gets to go to public school, so do I!"
Becky stood in the doorway.
"My volleyball team sucks as badly as his football team."
"Are there professional volleyball teams?" his mother asked.
"No."
"Then you're not going to high school with the trailer trash. You're staying at the Academy."
"That's not fair! If he gets to go to school with the trailer trash, why can't I?"
"I have to leave my school?" William asked. "My friends? Ray?"
His team lost every game, but he loved his school. And his friends.
"No, honey, of course you don't have to. You can stay at the Academy."
"Good."
"Unless you want to be a star athlete."
Thing was, Mom wanted a star in the family. She had hoped to be a star, but she wasn't. Becky wasn't either; she wanted to be a writer. Dad was kind of a star, for a lawyer. But lawyers aren't stars like athletes. No one is.
"What does Dad think?"
"He thinks you should be a lawyer."
Chapter 9
It's a conflicted day for a father when your son can finally hit a golf ball farther than you. On the one hand, you're proud that he can bomb the ball; on the other hand, you realize that he is no longer your little boy. He's now a little man. Or in William's case, a big little man. And you realize that you're past your prime physically.
"Dad, I want to be a pro quarterback."
Summers in Houston were hot and humid, but winters were sunny and mild. You could play golf in January. Frank bent over and teed his ball. A Titleist Pro-V-One. A four-dollar golf ball. You didn't hit cheap X-outs at the River Oaks Country Club. Frank had joined the club when he had made partner at the firm.
"Okay."
As if he had said he wanted to be an astronaut.
"Mom told me about the scout."
"She did?"
"Yep."
Frank had not.
"I want to go to public school with the trailer trash."
He had talked to his mother.
"But you love your school. And your friends."
"I love football more. Dad, I'm tired of losing. I want to be a winner. I want to play big-time high school ball then go D-One. Then the NFL. That's my dream."
"I dreamed of being a pro golfer when I was your age."
"Were you any good?"
"Not good enough."
"But I am. Good enough."
&nb
sp; "You know that?"
"Yeah, Dad. I know that. I know I'm different from the other boys."
"How?"
"I'm bigger, stronger, faster. Better."
"At fourteen. You might not be at eighteen."
"I will be. Once I grow into my hands and feet."
He held an open hand out. Frank placed his hand against his son's, as if they were high-fiving. William's hand was bigger than Frank's.
"I'm as tall as you, and my feet are bigger than yours. I'll be big enough. I'm a freak of nature, like all athletes."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, normal people can't do what pro athletes do. LaDainian Tomlinson, LeBron, A-Rod—they're freaks of nature. To be that big, that fast, that strong, that good—it's not normal. I'm not normal."
He wasn't.
"Dad, I love you and I'm proud of you, being a great lawyer, saving innocent people like Bradley Todd. But I don't want to be you. I want to be me. I want to let the beast out."
"What beast?"
"The beast inside me."
"And you do that on a football field?"
"I do. It's who I am, Dad. When I'm on that field, I know that's where I belong. Like I was born to play football."
"How does that feel?"
"Perfect."
Frank wondered if he had ever felt perfect. When the jury had rendered its verdict of not guilty in The State of Texas v. Bradley Todd, he had felt relieved, not perfect. There was nothing perfect about the American criminal justice system, even when an innocent person was acquitted. Because there was still an innocent victim. Rachel Truitt had been raped and murdered, and her murderer remained on the loose. Bradley had his justice, but Rachel had not had hers. Not yet.
"What if you get hurt? What if a knee injury takes your speed?"
"I can still throw with bad knees, like Joe Namath. But I won't get hurt."
"How do you know?"
"I just know."
Frank hit a good drive. At forty-seven, he still had some distance off the tee. It felt good. But not perfect. William teed a ball, stepped to the side, and cranked a drive that blew past Frank's on the fly. A perfect drive. Frank held out an open hand to his son; they high-fived. Sid and his son had stopped their cart to watch.
"Better make him give you strokes, Frank," Sid said with a laugh then drove off.
"Dad, I don't want to be a lawyer."
"You don't have to be a lawyer. But you need to be educated. The Academy is among the finest college prep schools in the country, a straight shot to the Ivy League."
The Case Against William Page 7